


Thursday

by oneforyourfire



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Barebacking, M/M, Oppa Kink, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 00:58:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17415929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/oneforyourfire
Summary: Tao needs Minseok most on Thursdays.





	Thursday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [artificialash (ashke)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashke/gifts).



Tao needs Minseok most on Thursdays.

Needs him Mondays, Tuesday, Wednesdays, Fridays, Saturdays, Sundays, too. And Parent-teacher conferences and Red days. Also sicks days, in-service training days, family holidays when the ache in his heart becomes too much to bear. 

In truth, Tao needs him _always_.

But most especially on Thursdays. The worst days. The hardest days.

Needs him especially as he scrolls through his phone calendar, sighs through his schedule—5 classes, lunchroom duty, after school team meeting because Thursdays, they’re always, always the _worst_. 

And Tao needs him _most_ today. The sleepy, soft, soft rumble of his greeting, the sleepy, soft, soft curl of his small, small fingers on the tremble of Tao’s wrist. The whisper of his breath against Tao's shoulder. The sleepy, soft, soft curve of his smile against his starched shirt. 

Needs also the feeling of Minseok’s hands skating over the buttons of shirt, the taste of his morning roast on his tongue, the sweet exhale of his "I love you, my honey peach” against his trembling lips. 

Tao curls into him, the solid breadth of his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat, the smell of laundry detergent and cologne and _home_ , melts and melts and melts, as Minseok’s small, small hands curl around his waist. Small and soft and solid and steadying.

Minseok is _most_ heartbreakingly, irresistibly handsome on Thursdays. Handsome in a pristine, heartbreaking kind of way, starched shirt, pressed pants, his silken tie a stark, stunning red against his pale throat. There’s something breathtaking and ethereal, nearly untouchable about him, and Tao sighs when Minseok touches him again, touches him _more_. 

He shudders as Minseok's stubble scraps against his throat, sears up along his chin  
It’s the most fleeting hint of a kiss, brief and sweet, a warmth that Tao chases with his entire body, needs and needs and needs until Minseok melts, too, eased open and soft and warm and perfect and impossible to resist. Tao moans as Minseok's tongue curls into his mouth. 

He's tingly still when he pulls away.

Needs more, hyung. So much more. 

But at Minseok’s insistence, Tao sits at their table, eats his eggs, rice, drinks his coffee. He kisses Minseok just once more, pressed against their fridge, hands on his waist, dragging him closer, fuck, closer, closer, harder, more, come on, more, more. more. 

But Minseok halts it once more, smoothing over the collar of Tao’s shirt, the lanyard of his whistle, then tugging on his earlobe. Whispering a final kiss on his jawline, a final tickling “I love you, Taozi” just beneath, he wishes him luck before heading out first.

 

But it’s Thursday, and Tao needs him on the crowded, sardine-tight subway, the crowded, sardine-tight bus, in the teacher’s lounge around his chipped mug of burnt, awful office coffee. 

And Tao needs him as he powers through his three morning classes. First, second, and third graders, working on their gross motor skills, their balance, training them how run and kick and dribble the ball without stopping and without using their hands like they’ve practiced with their partners. With their nets. And if they practice harder, master this, they can play a real game. Can be real superstars. 

He thinks about the way he ties up his hair whenever he exercises, the way that the sweat beads and glistens on his skin, in his hair, always _caressing_. About how he always fucking _giggles_ when Tao nuzzles into him. Thinks. Thinks. Wants. 

And Tao needs him when he supervises lunch that afternoon. As he breaks up one fight, replaces five dirtied sporks, shushes seven tables, flags down the janitor to address five distinct spills, comforts two children over popped chocolate milk cartons. 

As he blows his whistle and tames the unruly masses into some semblance of a line before dismissing them for recess

As he steals stirfried tofu and meat from Lu Han’s—Mr. Lu, Tao or Lu gege, you are _not_ allowed to be so informal with me—plate during his own rushed lunch. 

As he powers through his last classes. Chases stray balls around their kickball diamond. Reminding them to be careful of their classmates’ faces. It’s just a game. It’s just for fun. 

As he cleans the gymnasium afterwards, sanitizes their soccer balls, their nets. As he jots down notes in his gradebook, types up his lesson plans for the week. 

As he pretzels himself into a small, hard chairs to sit through another too-long meeting, another too-long lecture about fielding parent concerns and complaints, about filing incident reports as soon as possible, about parking only in their designated parking spaces, about only having their phones on their person if it's an absolute emergency. 

As he stumbles onto the subway, grazing elbows, knees, hips, thighs with complete strangers, aching all the while for Minseok’s touch, Minseok’s skin. 

As he stumbles, gestures, cajoles his way through his grocery shopping. Flustered, fumbling with his credit card as the cashier sighs. 

Tao holds onto the memory of him to make the trek back to their empty apartment more bearable—the _:)_ he sends after his meeting. The lunchtime selfie that Tao always demands—Minseok at his desk, eyes squinted shut, lips pursed, nose wrinkled, the styrofoam of his kimchi container and crumpled foil of his kimbap near his clenched fist.

 

And Minseok’s day is Thursday-long, Thursday-rough, too. Deadlines, he’d told him last night, as he’d rubbed shea butter into the callused knobs of his sharp, pink elbows. Submitting plans to the city a third time. Issues with the electrical lines, fire code. Because Yifan, as loveable and charming as he was, was _useless_ when it came to these types of things. Absentminded. Too stubborn to double-check. Too fucking adorable when he was apologetic, so Minseok felt bad about breaking him. 

He's working late, he sends. Will eat with at the office and Tao sends 15 heart emojis, a pouty selfie, then a kissy one. 

Tao makes a heart of the black beans in his rice, sends that, too. 

Receives a picture, Minseok's small, pink fingerheart, wrinkled plastic bags, open containers of food. Rice. Kimchi. Chicken galbi. Water dumplings. Sweet potato noodles. Ramen. Bibimbap. Bamboo chopsticks. The variety, it means their supervisor felt _especially_ bad, it means that Minseok will probably stay _especially_ late. Will need him _especially_ patient, especially pliant, especially pretty, especially good. 

And Tao thinks of that, of him in the shower, afterwards as he traces the faded bruises on his hips, thighs, shoulders, belly, scrubs himself pink, baby soft. Thinking of him still, needing him still, he tips forward in the tub to clean himself thorough, clean himself ready. Then folds himself on their toilet to slather himself in scented body oil. Cedarwood, Minseok's favorite. 

And he lets his hands wander, trace, tease, tug, lets his mind wander, too. Needs it. One stroke then two then three then four before folding his legs closed. Good, good, patient, pliant, pretty. 

He thinks of him as he dresses himself, too, Thursday-special, Thursday-shameless.

Tries to _stop_ thinking about him, to quell the restless, reckless thrum beneath his skin. Fails. 

Faster, he urges the clock as he collapses onto their futon, fidgets anxiously through 3 reality shows on TV. A home makeover. A talent competition. A ragtag group of Koreans stumble their way through foreign languages and foreign lands, in search of the spiciest soup in the world.

 

Minseok is exhausted when he comes home. 

There are fine bruises beneath his eyes, the most heartbreaking, tired tremble to his shoulders, and he lumbers as steps through the door, pausing only long enough to right his shoes in the entryway before collapsing onto him. 

And oh yes, yes, Minseok needs this, too, needs it _more_. 

Heart lurching, aching, aching with affection, Tao cradles him closer, loosens his tie, gets three buttons of his shirt open before Minseok is batting his hands away with a breathless laugh. 

He smells like laundry detergent, cologne, home still, but also gochujang, meat, rice. And Tao tilts up to kiss the taste of it out of his mouth. 

It's tired, slow, one of those fond, fond, lingering kisses that has his body flooding with too much affection to bear, heart aching, aching, aching with the staggering depth of his love. 

And Tao winds, whines when Minseok makes to pull away, and Minseok laughs again, breathless and breathtaking and beautiful. He cradles Tao’s face, thumbs tugging at the corners of Tao’s lips. 

But he needs this. They _both_ need this. 

"It's Thursday," he reminds him, tugging, and Minseok laughs again, breathless and breathtaking and beautiful again, as he indulges, follows, straddles Tao’s waist. Tao burrows his face into chest, inhales the heat of his heartbeat."I had fifth and sixth graders,” he continues against his skin, shivering as Minseok threads his fingers through his hair. “Three fights. Two bloody noses. Mr. Kim held up our after school meeting. Principal Park scolded me for the three popped soccer balls. The ahjumma at the neighborhood mart tried to sell me the worst cuts of meat and yelled at me when I tried to negotiate. Then I had to eat dinner by myself, which I _hate_."

"My poor Taozi," he breathes, indulgent but teasing, scraping his fingernails now over his scalp, down to the base of his skull, and Tao shivers with the stirrings of weak, helpless arousal, fingers stumbling to tug more buttons free. 

He need this. They _both_ need this. 

And emboldened, he slides his fingers under the gap of Minseok’s half-opened shirt, over the definition of his stomach, biting his lip as Minseok sighs, tenses then relaxes into the touch, pressing into it. Minseok's too handsome, too hot to bear, ethereal and untouchable, but Tao, he touches. And the muscles beneath Tao’s palms ripple and release as he slides further, further, bolder, circles his thumb around his bellybutton, catching the faint, faint tremor of his full-bodied shudder, grazing, grazing, grazing. And Minseok curves forward to exhale shakily against his temple, thighs trembling as Tao touches bolder, bolder, bolder. 

_Give it to me, hyung. Give me everything_. 

Tao presses harder, harder, harder, then whispersoft as he meanders lower, lower, lower, tracing over the jut of his waistband, the lip of his zipper. Minseok's nuzzling becomes more insistent, his breathing more gratifyingly labored, and his fingers tighten around Tao’s shoulders. 

"Poor, pretty Taozi."

Tao tugs at his zipper as Minseok's cheekbone grazes his own, shivers as Minseok's lip part in the softest, most beautiful hiss. 

"Thursday for you, too. Deadlines and team meetings. Yifan gege probably made awful jokes. You probably had to eat lunch at your desk from how short on time you were. Probably stressed yourself into tugging out at least 2 clumps of hair. Probably gonna have even more _white_ in your hair, hyung.” His fingers skip over the waistband of his briefs, over the heavy, heady heat that bleeds through. “Know you need the stress relief."

They both do. 

"Arguing your case, are you? Not content just to just make out and cuddle on the couch?"

But he shifts, kisses him again, slightly askew, but soft, sweet, and Tao cups his palm, strokes, groans at the hot, hot heft beneath his palm, the way that Minseok’s hips rock—almost imperceptibly—into his touch. Tao is a _starving_ for it.

"I showered already," he offers, curling, grinding the heel of his palm—teasing, deliberate, dragging over the flared head of Minseok’s cock. He rocks again much, much more perceptibly. "Cleaned myself out, hyung. Got ready for it. Even wore something nice for you, too. Your _favorite_."

And shifting atop him, rocking, rocking, rocking abrupt, demanding, hot, hot, hot, Minseok kisses him again, centered, deliberate. It’s demanding, dizzying, sharp, biting. Starved. He’s starved, too. 

It has Tao reeling. But greedy, greedy, desperate, Tao clambers out for more, tugging him closer, mindless with it already as Minseok's small, small, pink fingers sneak along his waist, bite into his ass. Minseok’s fingers slide beneath his pants, and he bites down on Tao’s bottom lip with the roughest, rawest, richest moan. 

Minseok's favorite he knows. Gold, tight, with elastic black bands that squeeze and frame his ass _just right_. 

Wrenching him forward, abrupt, demanding, hot, hot, hot, Minseok curses, praises, pants, tears at his jeans, tugs them open, cups, kneads, curses, praises, pants. His thumbs drag over the tight, tight gold fabric, moving in tiny maddeningly little circles against Tao’s aching, aching skin. 

“Gege," Tao gasps. 

“Turn over.” 

And Tao knows he likes him like this, twisted and small and helpless for him, begging to be touched, begging to be torn apart, knows he likes him exactly like this, how Tao likes it best, too. 

“Gege,” he repeats. 

And crawling behind him, moaning, filthy, filthy, rough, rough, he curses, praises, pants, cups, kneads, squeezes, praises, praises, praises. 

His favorite, he repeats against the quiver of Tao’s spine. What has he even done to deserve this, deserve him, as he kisses along the knobs of his spine, over the swell of his ass. Does Tao have any fucking _idea_. 

Minseok tugs at the string with his teeth, groans rough rough rough, deep, deep, deep, whispering kisses, more, more, more praises for his beautiful Taozi. 

And Tao gasps brokenly into the wooden frame of their futon, arches back into Minseok's grip, loving the fleeting sting of his blunt fingernails on his skin, the dull ache of his grip, starving, starving, starved for more. 

"Fuck me. Please please fuck me."

“Do you have any _idea_ , Taozi?” He repeats, rasped, ruined, ruined, ruining. “Can you even—” He nuzzles lazily, kisses, licks, bites, moans, and it sears along Tao’s ass cheek, wrecked and wet. 

Tao’s hands scramble, legs tremble, head hangs low. " _Oppa_.”

And Minsek inhales sharply against his skin. 

Brief, brief mortification twists through his gut, sweeps in his belly. And not like Amber jiejie, or Seohyun noona, he scrambles to say. Not like—Not because—He just—

But Minseok's lips curl against his skin—a smile or a smirk—and his fingers skip up Tao’s spine, over his arms, curl on Tao's elbows. His thumbs knead. Tao's entire body quakes. 

“Oppa?" And the warmth in his voice, it's a balm. 

It reminds him of dogeared Korean textbooks and wrinkled, pencil-smeared notecards, of Minseok’s soft, stilted Mandarin, his soft, stilted touches. Reminds him of the brief press of his lips under his jaw, the bright taste of soju on his tongue, his Minnie gege tilting up to kiss him, and Tao burning, burning, burning, bumbling still for more, more, more. Minseok, his perfect, perfect Minnnie gege, his perfect, perfect hyung, his _oppa_ , he makes it safe and hot and dizzying and perfect.

"Oppa," Tao repeats, steadier, breathier. "Minseokkie oppa.”

"Taozi," he whispers.

“ _Oppa_.”

And Minseok curves forward. Draped chest to spine, hips to ass, he grinds once, twice. His fingers close around Tao's waist, hold him steady then tug him back. His nipples scrape, clothed cock catches and snags against his bare ass, and the tug of pressed wool, painstakingly ironed cotton and silk against his bare skin, and the _promise_ of it, fuck, fuck, fuck, oppa. It rattles through him. 

Minseok's next _Taozi_ is a wet, hot, hot exhale against his jawline. Burning. He’s burning.

And he needs this. Needs him. It's Thursday. 

“My honey peach, do you need your oppa?” He sears into his earlobe, praising, panting, praising, grinding, grinding, grinding. 

And of course, he does. Of course, he always, always does. 

“Yes,” Tao whimpers, clawing at the wooden frame, wanting it, needing it. 

Small, slight, steady, steady, searing, his hip bones dig into ass as he rocks again, all slow and lazy, devastatingly sinuous grace. A promise, a proposal, a damningly delicious threat. Tao chokes on it. The deliberate drag, the need, the need, the need. 

" _Oppa_."

Tao's knees tremble, buckle, and Minseok follows him down, shushing, soothing as Tao whimpers. His fingers weave through his hair, tugging Tao back—sharp, sharp, soothing—as he rocks down onto him, and it’s so so hot, impossibly so. Oppa, oppa, please. 

Minseok swivels, rocks, and his hands snake around Tao's front, tease and swirl and burn and burn and burn. 

“So hard,” he whimpers, rough, rough, rough, pressing down rough, rough, rough. "All for me?"

_Always. Always. Always_. 

"Oppa," he wheezes. 

Minseok's teeth scrape against his spine, sharp against his goosebumped skin, fingers fanning. "So pretty, my Taozi."

Tao’s hips jump immediately into the pressure, seeking, needing, seeking, and he gasps as Minseok cups, curls, _strokes_ , small and sure and perfect, perfect, perfect.

"Wanna keep this on. Wanna appreciate this gift."

“Oppa.”

“Turn over for me."

Clumsy, desperate, Tao does, and Minseok shushes, soothes, when he bangs his head against the wooden frame, eases him against their wrinkled throw pillows, kissing his pout, then his nose, then between his eyebrows, then over his throat, his chest, his ribs, his taut, taut belly. 

Looming over him, he’s handsome in a ruined, heartbreaking kind of way with his blown pupils and disheveled hair and ruddy, ruined lips and flushed, heaving throat. And he’s gonna fuck him hard, Tao knows. Gonna fuck him _wrecked_.

There’s the most devastating darkness in his eyes as he slides between Tao’s trembling thighs, drapes them over his shoulder.

He mouths in, in, in, up, up, up, until he's nuzzling over the aching, aching, aching jut of his cock, dampening the fabric with teasing, teasing, kittenish licks, blinking up at him under his heavy, dark eyelashes all the while. 

He winds his thumb into the tight, tight, tight material, tugs it even tighter, tighter, tighter, licks obscenely over the bared skin he can reach, swirling around his balls, the base of his cock, curling sloppy and wet along his shaft. His wet sigh vibrates against Tao's skin, and it burns and tears and ruins. 

And Tao thrums and trembles and tenses and wants and wants and wants please, oppa, please. 

Minseok's ruddy lips purse, graze, tease, test, torture, prim, proper even as he suckles, shifts, slurps. 

"Let oppa taste you."

Fuck, please, please, please.

Minseok kisses his tremors away, then lower, lower, lower. And it's sinful, filthy, wet, sloppy, perfect, Minseok moaning as he traces his tongue over his skin, strokes, strokes, strokes just damningly, deliberately devastating, chuckling against him when Tao jerks, quivers, arches, pleads. Aching, aching, aching, Tao's cock pulses, jerks, dribbles. 

And Minseok tugs the jockstrap only just just just enough to reach at what he wants, and Tao jerks, quivers, arches, pleads—harder, harder, harder, oppa, please. 

The first curl of Minseok's tongue against his rim is wet and wicked, hot, hot, hot, Minseok moaning raggedly as he swirls, swirls, pushes, pushes. Opens him up around the sloppiest, filthiest, hottest kiss. 

“So sweet,” he breathes. “My pretty little peach. Give me _more_.”

And moaning, urging, cajoling, Minseok presses, presses, presses closer, tight, his teeth a blunt, hot, solid, grounding pressure as he strokes his tongue deeper, more deliberate, more, more, more devastating.

“Open up for me,” he coaxes, coaxes, coaxes. “Let me in. Let me in.”

Tao tugs restlessly at his own hair, arches and trembles, opens, opens, opens as Minseok pulls him closer, licks and fucks and pushes in _earnest_ , intentional, relentless. He curls a finger inside when Tao gasps for it, too dry, too slow, too delicate and teases and teases and teases, adds another and eases and eases and eases until Tao is slick and sloppy and sobbing hoarsely for more.

“Let oppa in,” he repeats, his voice rough, rasped, ruined. “So good, my Taozi.” Low, low, rough with longing. “So beautiful.” He slides, bites. “So sweet.” He underscores his filthy praise with pulsing sort of curl that has Tao's head lolling back, his breath staccatoing into a shattered whimper of his name. And oppa, oppa, oppa.

And Minseok crooks and presses and fucks and fucks and fucks—just just just exactly how—oppa, oppa, oppa, please, please, Minseok oppa, please, _fuck_.

"Don't stop, Minseok oppa. Need it."

Twisting his fingers, pressing, pressing, pressing, not stopping, never ever stopping, Minseok blinks up at him, disheveled and breathless and smug and gorgeous and perfect and hotter than he can bear. 

And oh fuck, the sharp fondness of his dark, dark eyes, the sting of his teeth on the column of Tao’s trembling thighs, the breathtakingly insistent pressure of his fingers, curling and crooking and circling and pushing and pushing and pushing, urgent and merciless. And Tao unravels and breaks and melts and writhes and begs and begs and begs, please, oppa, please.

Neck weak, chest heaving, limbs quivering, eyelashes fluttering, he begs. 

Please, please, please. Fuck him hard. Fuck him ruined. He _needs_ it.

“Taozi,” he repeats, warm and rough and longing, soothing, searing, soothing. “It's okay. It's okay, baby. Oppa is here.”

Here and his and perfect, an elegant, untouchable sort of beauty even as he touches him, even as his fingers ram, palm claps against Tao’s ass. 

And aching, aching, aching, Tao scrambles, gropes, and Minseok squeezes his hand, smooths his thumb into Tao's trembling wrist, soothing, soothing, even as he fans his fingers and drags and prods and slams and fucks and fucks and fucks and ruins. 

Minseok drags their twined fingers to Tao’s cock, drags, strokes, and Tao blinks, dazed, at the pretty curl of his small, pink fist as the sharp, sharp, sharp pleasure echoes, echoes, echoes, climbs, climbs, climbs. 

And Tao can't—

"Fuck me. Fuck me. Please. Please. Please. _Oppa_.”

“My pretty peach.” 

“Now,” he insists. “Oppa, _now_.” 

He sobs in relief as Minseok’s wrenches him forward by the hips—clumsy, affected, rough, strong, perfect, perfect, perfect. 

“Now. Now. Now.” 

But Minseok rifles for lube in their drawers instead, makes an awful, awful slow of touching himself, whispering again about how much he wants it, wants him, even as he drags it out, denies them both. 

He tilts his hips up after seven, eight beats, teases, grazes, delicate, deliberate, and the wet filthy kiss of his flared head has Tao whimpering, has his body thrumming with need. Almost, almost, almost, give me, give me, give me. 

Minseok’s tiny, tiny, pink fingers smooth over his hips, soothing, steadying as he presses just just just slightly, and Tao’s body opens helplessly, greedily against the pressure, needing, needing, needing. They climb higher, those tiny, tiny, pink fingers, drag over his belly, tickle over his ribs, tweak along his nipples, curl briefly, briefly, briefly around his throat. And he’s teasing them over his lips as he teases his cock along Tao’s rim. 

There’s a little ring of red at his wrist, pepper paste. Eraser shavings on his cuffs. He undoes those, kisses his fingertips, his palm, his right ring finger, lingering, wet, moaning as Minseok's thumb kneads restlessly into his cheek

Tao moans and licks and sucks and swallows around them, loving the bitterness of his own precome, the salt of Minseok’s skin, the tremble of it, the way that Minseok's eyes burn on his skin. Minseok pushes them deeper, presses down on his tongue, drags his thumb down his cheekbone over the column of hi̧s throat, clumsy and so, so fond, as he keeps, keeps pushing pushing pushing, moaning brokenly all the while. 

Minseok fucks him in increments, centimeter by pulsing, aching, hard, hard centimeter, hands bumbling to cradle Tao’s jawline instead, jaw slackening and eyebrows pinching past the friction. 

And Tao's needed this. All fucking day, he’s needed this. The breathtaking perfect, perfect stretch, the aching press of Minseok’s sharp hip bones to Tao's ass, the searing heat of his labored breathing at Tao's chest, the liquid darkness of his eyes, the pucker of his ruined, ruddy lips, the heady heat, heady taste of his skin.

“Oppa,” he gurgles, and Minseok's nostrils flare, eyebrows crease, cock pulses. “Oppa, fuck me.”

He whimpers again as Minseok's saliva-slick, arousal-clumsy hands stumble down the trembling column of his throat, settling on his quivering shoulder, his heaving chest, anchoring there as he swivels, teases in tiny, tiny grinds in and out, in and out, in and out. 

"Feel so good,Taozi,” he breathes. 

And impaled, speared open with cock, Tao can hardly think, hardly breathe past the perfect, perfect stretch of it. 

_Oppa, oppa, oppa_.

He circles, circles, circles, hisses out a reverent, reverent curse, rocking still, gentle still, tender still, back, forth. 

And it makes Tao's blood roar with greed, and he winds around him tighter, needier, bucks into every tiny, tiny, tiny thrust, wants, wants, needs, needs it harder, faster, deeper, meaner.

But slow, slow, slow he rocks back, forth, easing, easing, easing like Tao isn't begging for it with every breaking, broken moan, with every restless, shivery grind back, with every tug of his fingers in Minseok's hair, like Tao doesn't need him with every fracturing cell in his body. 

He eases and eases and eases until tears are stinging in Tao's eyes, and he can’t breathe past the pleasure, can’t think past every deep, deep pulse of Minseok’s cock in his body. 

And his oppa gives it to him soft and tender and excruciatingly slow, and Tao is so, so, so greedy, consumed by it. And burning and burning and burning. 

“Harder,” he pants. “Oppa.” And Minseok laughs, breathless and strained and tight, tight, tight with need. “Oppa, need it harder. _Harder_.” Urgent, broken, oppa, he _needs_. 

“So polite,” Minseok praises, scooping his arms beneath Tao’s back, dragging him forward—hard, hard, hard, yes, yes, _yes_. "Even with my cock in your ass. Such a good dongsaeng.” 

"Harder," he insists or demands or sobs or begs. "Harder, oppa, oppa, oppa—"

And Minseok finally, finally, finally relents. Finally, finally, finally fucks him Thursday-rough, Thursday-fast, Thursday-deep.

It rattles through his bones, every thrust deliberate and deep and driving, ramming into him just, just, just exactly how he needs it, oppa, oppa, please. 

“Oppa,” he repeats, insistent or demanding or sobbing, loving the slam of his cock, the biting grip of his the fingers on Tao's waist, the scrape of his teeth along his chest, the ruin of his rasped, rough, rough _baby_. Loving, loving, needing.

“Please, let me. Let me. Let me.”

Minseok hefts him forward with a rich, rich groan, stumbles, and Tao clambers, bumbles, shifts, climbs onto him, needs him, needs him, needs him with every cell in his body. 

Tangling his fingers in his hair, tugging him back, back, helpless, Minseok kisses him fierce and filthy and fond. And his fingers mold and knead into his jaw and his moan is hot and deep and ruined along his lips and his cock stretches and aches inside him just perfect. And Tao loses himself, utterly consumed, utterly undone, helplessly in love. 

Minseok, he's a catastrophe, a disaster. A firestorm, earthquake, typhoon. 

And drowning, drowning, drowning, burning, burning, burning, tearing, tearing, tearing, _starving_ , Tao is left bruised and battered and bloody and begging for more. Fuck, oppa, please _more_. 

He shifts, shudders, shifts, spears himself with his cock. And drowning, burning, starving, he rides him dirty and hard and fast and deep, mouthing helplessly at Minseok's throat, tasting his pulse as he fucks himself on his oppa's perfect cock. 

Just, just, just exactly how he needs it.

His legs tangle, quiver, jerk as he angles back clumsier but dirtier, harder, faster, deeper, falling apart, whimpering at the quiet, quiet, soft way that Minseok oppa, too, falls apart.

Throat bared, eyes hooded, hair matted to his forehead, jack slack, he’s a beauty that undoes burns him, ruins him for everyone else, and Tao needs him, needs him, needs him. Always, always, always fucking needs him, spearing him open on his cock, whispering breathless, breathtaking, cresting little praises into his skin, loving him, taking him, needing him, needing him, needing him. 

Tao’s hands scramble over the beam, clasp desperately for some sort of leverage as he rides him dirtier, rougher, faster, messier, messier, messier needier. 

It’s splintering and sharp, sharp, sharp, shards of pleasure cutting through him and building and building and building. 

Oh fuck. Oppa, fuck,fuck, _fuck_. 

Tao clasps desperately at Minseok’s shoulders, sobs as Minseok’s teeth close over his throat, bruising and possessive

Oppa, oppa. Please. 

His hips snap, sharp, sharp, steady, steady, sure. 

“Taozi,” he rasps. “My beautiful, sweet, perfect Taozi. Give it to me. Come on.”

And Tao wails and claws and jerks and trembles and writhes as it crashes through him, tears him apart. And Minseok keeps, keeps, keeps stroking, keeps, keeps, keeps fucking, keeps, keep, keeps taking and taking and taking.

And Tao wants to give him absolutely everything.

Minseok, his oppa, his love, his everything, burning him alive until he’s hiccuping and sobbing and pleading and tearing and falling and falling and falling

Minseok follows him down into the futon mattress, pins him with his hips, his cock. So much, his oppa is so much, just just just shy of what he can handle, just just just that sweet, sweet aching between. 

And Tao twists and trembles and thrashes back against the mattress and takes and takes and takes

Boneless, breathless, mindless, Tao needs it, needs it, needs it.

“Come inside me, oppa. Claim me, oppa. Take me. Take me. Take me. Oppa. Minseokkie oppa. Give me what I need. Give me. Give me. Give me. 

And it's urgent and erratic and inelegant and enthusiastic and forceful and hot and faster and faster and faster until he’s shuddering, collapsing, crying out, his hips stutter-fucking erratic and sharp and hard as his jaw slackens and his eyelashes flutter and his eyebrows pinch and he falls falls falls apart and into him

Tao whimpers through the heavy, heady, heady, distinct pulse of his cock, the blooming warmth of it, how it makes him feel most possessed, most loved, most precious, makes him feel as beautiful and perfect as Minseok always pants that he is. 

But Minseok he’s most beautiful, most perfect as he pants and quivers and melts and flushes through the aftershocks, melts into the afterglow. Beautiful in his soft, sated exhausted, even with the fine bruises beneath his eyes, the haggard lines around his mouth, beautiful even in the lumbering way he falls into him and needs this, needs it more. Too, too beautiful to bear. 

Tao winds around him, traces the receding flush on his skin with his fingers, his lips and savors and needs and loves him with every reckless pulse of his racing heart. 

“Hyung,” he says, and Minseok exhales shakily into his sternum, an aborted, absent, tiny, tiny laugh as he shifts slow, slow, slow, groans, trembles, strains, collapses. 

And Tao pets his sweaty bangs back, cups his face, drags his thumb over the quiver of his throat, loves every flushed, quivering, glistening centimeter of him, loves him aching.

Minseok kisses as he nuzzles into his palm, and his eyelashes flutter and his nose wrinkles and he’s still so, so beautiful. 

“Hyung,” he repeats. “Gege." 

Coaxing him closer, Tao catches, cradles as Minseok melts and melts and needs and loves.

**Author's Note:**

> @ ash, thanks for giving me the opportunity to write tao again 
> 
> i hope this is to your liking, dear friend


End file.
